


my heart has teeth and they ache

by certifiedclown



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A little crazy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Body Dysphoria, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Good Albus Dumbledore, Good Tom Riddle, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Grow Up Together, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Harry is a Good Friend, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Horcruxes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinda, POV Tom Riddle, Panic Attacks, Possession, References to Depression, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Sane Tom Riddle, They're all good friends, Tom Riddle Needs a Hug, Tom Riddle Redemption, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort, Tom Riddle is a Sweetheart, Tom Riddle's Diary, and an even better brother, and that's gonna be super fun for tom to discover, at least. not anymore, but still sweet, but with a twist!, doesn't vibe with that snake, he tries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25660801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certifiedclown/pseuds/certifiedclown
Summary: Tom Riddle gets a second chance. It's not what he expected.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle & Ron Weasley, they're friends or whatever
Comments: 31
Kudos: 83





	1. a girl dies and a boy lives

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Cuckoo In The Nest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196385) by [Limited_Edge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limited_Edge/pseuds/Limited_Edge). 



_“For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book._

_There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over Harry's hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and then he had gone._

_Harry's wand fell to the floor with a clatter and there was silence. Silence except for the steady drip-drip of ink still oozing from the diary. The basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right through it.”_

_\- Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets._

* * *

It was like nothing he had ever felt before---dying, that is. It hurt more than Billy Stubbs's words, jabs, and jeers. It hurt more than Mrs. Cole's cold eyes and even colder hands. It hurt more than Martha’s sympathetic eyes and kind hands and candies she got just for him but never because she loved him or wanted him to be happy---because she felt guilty and wrong---and responsible for him, almost---and never---never _for_ him.

It hurt more than all of the mums and dads that came through the orphanage and looked at him like he was perfect and took him home and showered him with love and money and---so much warmth---but he---he didn’t know how to handle it all after---after being so cold for so long so he---didn’t. And they always took him back and he’d---he’d end up cold again. So he stopped looking for a mum and dad and he---he took the candies Martha gave him and he took the hugs and smiles because she---she was always nice and even if---even if it wasn’t for him---even if it was just because she felt guilty---it was still---nice.

It hurt more than the days spent shivering in the coal shed because Ben Buck lied about him again and Mrs. Cole believed him over Tom---she always did. And it hurt more than days spent sweating in the attic because he got in another fight because he got---so angry and so---violent because Billy Stubbs stole another one of his books and---and ruined it and Tom---saw red---and woke up to it on his knuckles and teeth and---Ben was crying but Tom didn’t---he didn’t remember what happened---but Mrs. Cole didn’t believe him and Tom---stopped trying to make her understand.

It hurt more than all of that. It was like burning and freezing all at once. Like coming apart at the seams and coming together---like living and breathing and dying and suffocating all in one breath because---he was living and dying all at once---because to die you have to _live._ But Tom---he feels like he hasn’t lived. He’s been---too angry and bitter and---sad and jaded to---to really live. And he feels like---like he’s missed so much and he’d do---anything to get just a bit more time.

_I’m only sixteen!_ he wants to scream and cry and beg and say all at once but he---can’t because he’s dead but---he wants to try. _Why---why don’t I get another chance? I just---I just wanted to be loved---I didn’t mean to---to be so bad because I’m not---I’m--I’m just a kid!_

And then he’s waking up and---he’s _alive_ but it’s wrong because everything’s---tilted and when his arms don’t move the same and they don’t---feel the same and his hands are too---they’re too _small_ and his hair---his hair is _red_ and _too long_ and it’s in his eyes---and his arms are---covered in freckles and---it’s all too wrong. It’s not---it’s not _his_.

He’s---Ginny Weasley but he’s--- _not_ . He’s---Tom Riddle but he’s--- _not._

His mouth moves without his input and what if---what if Ginny’s still---still in here? With him? What---what then? What does he do then? What does he do now?

_Lie._

“Harry---I tried to tell you at---at breakfast, but I couldn’t say it in front of---it was me, Harry, but I---I _swear_ I didn’t mean to---Riddle made me, he took me over---and---how did you kill that thing that---that thing? Where’s Riddle? The last thing I remember is---is him coming out of the diary---”

“It’s all right,” Harry says, holding up the diary---his diary, that’s his diary, it’s _his---_ and he’s showing Ginny---but it’s Tom and that’s _his diary_ \---and there’s a hole in---a hole and a fang on the wet floor and Harry’s so sure that he’s dead but he’s---not and he can’t---he can’t be found out. “C’mon, Ginny, let’s get out of here---”

“I’m going to be expelled!” Tom forces out, letting his tears fall hard and fast and he---trembles because the body that’s his but--not--- _hurts._ “I’ve looked forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since---ever since Bill came in and now---now I’ll have to _leave_ and---what’ll mum and dad say?”

And then there’s the bird---the phoenix---Fawkes---swooping down, hovering at the entrance of the Chamber and then---there’s Harry coaxing him forward, stepping over the motionless coils of the---dead---basilisk and then---through the echoing gloom and then into the tunnel and---the stone doors close behind them with a final hiss and Tom’s--- _alone._

But Harry doesn’t stop, doesn’t wait for Tom to catch up because he---doesn’t know it’s Tom---he thinks it’s Ginny and that’s---fine. Tom runs after him and doesn’t trip over too short legs and too long strides and not enough---space.

“Ron!” Harry yells and he’s really running now and Tom can’t---his body is too---not his to keep up so he stops and catches his breath and then---Harry’s there and he’s---grabbing his arm and pulling him along and he hasn’t---he doesn’t know. “Ginny’s okay! I’ve got her!”

And Tom can hear a cheer---a choked sound that’s---familiar---but not like---like something he’s heard in a dream---like that one time the Chudely Cannons won and Ron rubbed it in the twins’ faces and Ginny?---Tom?---and Tom had---had laughed---and that isn’t---that isn’t _Tom’s_ memory but---it’s nice. And then Tom can see---he can his brother’s face and his heart settles in his chest and---and everything will be okay now because---because Ron’s here now and Ron would---he would never let anything happen to him.

“Ginny!” Ron thrusts an arm out through the gap in the rocks and Tom---Tom grabs it and holds his hand and he---he feels better and less---disjointed but this---this isn’t his brother because---because Tom doesn’t have a brother but---but doesn’t he now? “You’re alive! I don’t believe it! I’m---I’m so glad you’re okay---what happened? How---what---where did that bird come from?”

Tom turns, gripping Ron’s hand tight and hard and---there’s Fawkes---swooping in after them and---does it know? Can it tell?

“He’s Dumbledore’s,” Harry says, pushing Tom through the gap and then---Tom’s in Ron’s arms and he’s---he’s being hugged and he doesn’t---he doesn’t know what to do with his arms so he---he grabs Ron’s robes and twists the fabric in his hands and---and his eyes _burn_ so he turns his face into Ron’s shoulder and---his eyes are wet and his shoulders shake but---it’s okay because his brother’s got him and he’ll---he’ll catch all of his tears like he did when Tom scraped his knee playing with Luna when he was four and didn’t know how to stop running once he’d started---and---and Tom--- _cries._

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s over now,” Ron murmurs and his voice is soft like it was last year when Tom had tried to kiss Luna and---she hadn’t wanted to because she---she didn’t like him back so---so he’d run back to their house and Ron had found him in---in the attic with the ghoul and he’d---he’d held him just like he is now and everything had felt a little bit better and the next day when Luna came over to see him it hadn’t---it hadn’t hurt anymore. “It’s all right now, everything’s gonna be okay. Harry---is that a _sword?_ Where did you get that? Wait---tell me later, okay? Let’s---let’s just get out of here.”

“Okay,” Harry says and his voice---his voice is short and---tired and Tom---Tom can relate. He feels more tired than he has ever before---even when they went swimming in the creek near their house for hours and hours and he’d felt dead on his feet then but now---now he feels---he knows what being dead is now---and he’s---his bones _ache_. “Where’s Lockhart?”

“He’s still back there,” says Ron, jerking his head up the tunnel towards the pipe and he looks angry and---worried. “He’s in a bad way. Come and see.”

Fawkes swoops in front of them and Tom tenses and Ron---Ron’s grip on his shoulders tightens and he pulls Tom in closer like he can---like he’s trying to shield him and Tom---he goes willingly. And the three---the four of them?---is Tom alone in this body?---is he---does he have to live with the memories and life Ginny’s left behind?---the three of them follow the phoenix through the tunnel up to the pipe and there’s Lockhart sitting at the bottom, humming to himself and he---he doesn’t look anything like Ginny said he did and Tom’s---Tom’s almost disappointed.

“His memory’s gone,” Ron tells him quickly as they get closer and Tom’s---touched he cares---that he wants Tom to understand---to feel included. “The Memory Charm backfired. Hit him instead of us. Hasn't got a clue on---anything really. It’s all just---gone. I told him to come and wait here. He's a danger to himself.”

As if sensing them talking about him, Lockhart looks up and smiles. “Hello. Odd sort of place, this, isn’t it? Do you live here?”

“What? No,” Ron shakes his head and looks at Harry, eyebrows raised and it’s---funny---so Tom laughs and his brother and his friend---Harry Potter, the boy who killed---saved---him---look at him and Ron’s smiling and so is Harry so it---it must be okay to laugh.

“Glad you’re feeling a bit better,” Harry tells him kindly and---how is he so kind? Tom---he doesn't understand and he wants to ask---to ask why, but Harry’s turned to Ron and---he’s asking about a way up---a way out of the Chamber. And Ron’s shaking his head and he---he doesn’t know what’s happening because Fawkes is hovering before them and Harry’s---Harry’s grabbing his tail and they’re all grabbing on to him and then---then they’re being pulled up through the pipe---up and out of the Chamber.

And then they’re in the bathroom---Moaning Myrtle’s---Myrtle Warren---the girl he killed---they’re in her bathroom and---Myrtle is there, gawking at them.

“You’re alive,” she says blandly and---that’s not---that’s not right because Tom’s not---he’s not alive and Ginny---she’s dead and they---shouldn’t be here anymore.

“There’s no need to sound so disappointed,” Harry snaps at her and Tom---flinches and Harry sees and he---he looks so---so guilty just like---like Martha used to when he’d flinch away from her kind hands and---Tom---Tom can taste peppermint on his tongue and his throat---itches and swells but he can breathe just fine so---so it must all be in his head.

"Oh, well ... I’d just been thinking ... if you had died, you'd have been welcome to share my toilet," Myrtle says with a blush and it’s---silver and not---red and Tom---he feels stupid because of course it’s not red she’s---dead and---ghosts can’t blush red.

Harry makes an angry noise that Ron echoes and they stomp out of the bathroom for the dark, deserted corridor outside and it’s so---lonely and cold and---Tom shivers and he’s---it’s almost like he’s in the coal shed again and his eyes sting and burn and his breathing hitches in his chest---a hiccup and then---he’s crying again and he doesn’t know _why_.

“Think Myrtle’s grown fond of you, Harry,” Ron tries to joke, but it’s too---it’s too dark and too sad and it---falls flat. “You might have some competition, Ginny!”

And it feels too loud and---it sounds wrong because his name isn’t Ginny---it’s Tom, but Tom is dead and so is Ginny so---so who is he then? Who’s left when there are no bodies left for him to steal? When he’s already got one and it’s---it’s so _wrong?_ And Tom can’t---he can’t stop crying. 

Ron makes a stressed noise and pulls him in closer and that---that makes it better. “Where now?”

Harry points at Fawkes and they follow the phoenix to a door and Tom looks and it’s---Professor McGonagall’s office and he has just enough time to think---Minnie became a Professor?---and then the door opens and then there’s silence as the four of them---five of them?---is there five?---stand in the doorway and then---then there’s a scream and Tom blinks away his tears and then---there’s his---no, Ginny’s mum and dad and not his because Tom doesn’t---he doesn’t have a mum or a dad but then they scoop him up in a hug that squeezes and warms him like all of those maybe mum’s and dad’s from the orphanage did except this one---this one feels better because--because it’s _real_.

And Tom---Tom crumbles into the embrace and he---he wails like a child but he---isn’t he a child now? Isn’t he just a kid? And don’t all kids wail in their mum’s arms when they’re scared and tired and cold and safe all at once? Isn’t this what kids do? Isn’t it okay then, if Tom does it too?

And then Ron’s there too and so is Harry and it’s---crowded and too warm and they’re all grimy and sweaty and Harry’s---bloody but Tom is---Tom wants it all so he shifts and throws his arms around the two other boys---and he’s still a boy, isn’t he?--- and he hugs them close and tight and some part of him---the part that doesn’t understand tears over a broken toy or bone and sees red and gets so---so mad sometimes---wants to make Harry scream and cry and break and laugh and breath all at once but---but he doesn’t because if he did---if he did then the hug wouldn’t be so nice.

“You saved her! You saved her!” someone says close to his ear and it takes him a while to know who it is and who they’re referring to and when he does he freezes because he---he isn’t a girl---he’s a boy and he’s not---he’s not Ginny Weasley. “How’d you do it?”

Mum---Mrs. Weasley---lets go of Harry and he stands there for a moment and he looks so---so awful and young and pitiful and---alone that Tom aches so he---he pulls away from mum and dad---Ginny’s mum and dad---and he ignores the part of his brain that spits venom and wants to hurt so badly that his teeth ache and his gums swell---and he wants to reach out and take Harry’s hand and---do something so---he does and Harry---Harry looks like he’ll fall over any second now and Tom---Tom feels---he feels bad for Harry so he takes the sword and it---it doesn’t slip through his fingers---and he takes the silent hat and he takes the diary and ignores the hole in the middle---the hole that was punched through him and he can still---he can still almost feel the ache of the wound---raw and bloody and new and---throbbing---with ink and pain and he remembers---screaming and dying all in one breath. But he isn’t screaming and dying now so he takes the sword and the hat and the diary that was his and is not anymore and he sets them on McGonagall’s desk---and sees Dumbledore for the first time and he---he looks so old and wrinkly and Tom can’t---he can’t connect this man with the one in his memories because they are---they are so _different_ and Tom---looks way from his twinkling eyes because he has learned not to trust this man and that is not a lesson he will soon forget.

Tom steps away from the desk and when his---Ginny’s---their---mum tugs him back into her arms, he goes willingly and he buries his face in her chest and closes his eyes and clenches his right hand into a fist and rubs his index finger over his thumb over and over and over and over again until the ugly tangled knot in his chest loosens and he can breathe easy again. And when he opens his eyes, he realizes the room has gone quiet and he looks up to see everyone staring at him and he feels---he feels caught and the tangled knot tightens and constricts and---he wheezes and he can’t breathe easy anymore but then---then Harry is standing in front of him and Rom’s holding his hand again and the pressure lessens and it’s a little bit easier to draw breathe.

“Ginny didn’t know,” Harry is saying firmly when he tunes back in. “She just thought the diary was enchanted---that it seemed like there was someone in there to make you feel less---lonely. She didn’t know that it---that it was Voldemort. And it wasn’t her. She wasn’t the one who did those things. I know---I know because he almost got me too. I thought---I found the diary and I wrote in it and he was---nice. To me. And I thought he was my friend too. He was---he was really good at it. Making it seem like he---like he cared. It’s not her fault.”

And Tom doesn’t---he doesn’t know what to think about that---about Harry saying he was---good at making it seem like he cared because---because he knows he was---he does know, but he’d never---he’d never considered how they’d---feel. He’d never thought about how the people he---he lied to would feel after---when they found out none of it meant anything to him because they hadn’t---they had never mattered enough for him to. And now---now Harry’s here and he’s saying these things and he’s defending Tom even if---even though he doesn’t know it’s Tom and not---Ginny---and he feels so---guilty. Distantly, he wonders if this is how Martha felt when she looked at him.

Dumbledore takes the diary and looks down at it and Tom---feels on edge, like he can tell something’s missing and he knows---he knows that it’s Tom in Ginny’s body and not her---like he can feel her dead soul in the diary---like he can see the remnants she left behind.

“Brilliant,” he says softly and Tom---doesn’t like the way his voice sounds. “Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen.”

And Dumbeldore is looking at him now and his eyes are---they’re not twinkling anymore and Tom can’t look away because they look so---sad and he---he has to know that Ginny is dead and Tom isn’t. Why else would he be looking that way? Looking at him like he feels---like he feels so sorry for him---like he finally gets it---like he knows something Tom doesn’t? Why is he looking at him like that?

“And Ginny--” mum says and Tom cringes at the tone of her voice because it’s angry and hurt and---loud and that has never meant anything good for him before but this is mum and she’s---she’s never hurt him before so why would she start now? But---it’s never meant anything good before---but she wouldn’t---she _wouldn’t._ “Ginny, you wrote in it?”

And then dad starts and Tom can’t---he feels raw and vulnerable and he can’t---he can’t breathe and everything’s too much and they haven’t hit him yet and the worst part---the worst part is always waiting for the blow. But they don’t hit him and that’s not---right but it is because they would never because they love him---loved Ginny---and they wouldn’t. And then Tom’s crying again and his vision is blurry but he thinks they look---worried and everything is _too much._

“I didn’t know!” he cries and maybe what’s left of Ginny is forcing him to speak. “I found it inside one of the books Mum got me. I thought---thought someone had just left it in there and forgotten about it---”

"Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right away," Dumbledore interrupts smoothly, in a firm tone of voice that has Tom flinching away because he---he almost sounded like that when he first visited the orphanage to tell Tom about Hogwarts and he’d---he’d set Tom’s things on fire and threatened him and not the other kids who had taken his things and pushed him down the stairs and---it wasn’t _fair._ “This has been a terrible ordeal for her and there will be no punishment. Far older and far wiser wizards have been tricked by Lord Voldemort,” he strides over to the door and opens it. “Bed rest and perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me up," he adds and his voice is kind and so are his eyes but that’s not---that’s not right because he’s never been kind to Tom before. “You will find that Madam Pomfrey is still awake. She's just giving out Mandrake juice -- I daresay the basilisk's victims will be waking up any moment.”

“So Hermione and everyone else will be okay?” Ron asks, his face lighting up and Tom feels---not good.

“There will be no lasting harm done, Ginny,” Dumbledore assures. Tom wants---he doesn’t want to feel this way anymore---to feel so---so guilty. He looks at the ground and it’s---swirling. His vision is spotty. He’s---tired.

He sways and he feels---sick and he almost feels like he’s a memory again, like he’s---not here anymore---like a---like a ghost, incorporeal---like his form will flicker out like a candle. His hand twists into a fist again and he rubs his thumb over his index finger over and over and over again and his nails---dig into his palms but---there isn’t a sting like they’re really digging into nothing at all and his head---he feels floaty. He feels like he’s---asleep or like he’s---dead or dying but---slow---all over again. And when the ground rushes up to meet him, he thinks he hears someone not him scream and that’s---new. But then everything goes black and he’s---gone again.


	2. how can you feel at home in her place?

Tom wakes slowly - in lulls and pulls, little instances of consciousness that fade away as soon as his fingers skim them until  _ finally  _ his eyes open and fall closed no longer. And for a moment - for just a moment - he can almost pretend he’s still in a world of black and white, a world on greyscale, but then his eyes focus and he sees the splashes of color lingering in his vision - the browns, the dull greens, and soft blues; it all looks so  _ vibrant  _ to him now and it’s almost too much.

“Ginny?” his mum---it’s Ginny’s mother, not his, he’s an orphan, his mother is dead, she didn’t live for him, she died for him, was he loved?---asks gently and his head rolls to the side, looking for her and there she is - a shocking blaze of fiery red, hair glowing in the gentle sunlight streaming in from the window, a haloed angel, is she just as holy? “How’re you feeling, love?”

His mouth is dry - arid as the desert must surely be; he’s always wanted to see it - and when he swallows, it’s a slow, mechanical thing that hurts the back of his throat and he winces. Mum notices and hands him a glass of water - the condensation sliding down the glass is so cold it burns for a moment but it feels good against his skin because it’s  _ sensation  _ after so many years -- fifty years --- without it - and he drinks from the proffered straw gently, careful of his empty stomach, slowly soothing his burning throat before pulling away.

“Is that better?” she asks and her voice is so loving like Martha’s was at times when her guilt wasn’t eating her up inside and she let herself love him like he loved her - when she gave him that part of her she reserved for those that were safe to love and to hold close, when she treated him like family - and he always thought that was what it was like to have a mother. But now, with Mrs. Weasley---this is his mum---here, he now knows that was so far from family. “C’mon, let’s sit up. Tell me how you feel - any pain at all?”

“No,” Tom croaks out, his voice hoarse and raspy like he’s been screaming - and maybe he has, maybe he did, he can’t remember. “Where’s---is Ron alright? Harry? And---and Hermione, is she alright?”

Mrs. Weasley smiles at him and it’s gentle and relieved and---maybe it’s a little sad. “They’re all fine, dear, everything’s alright. You don’t have to worry about this mess anymore.”

And Tom---Tom feels all of the returning tension - the dread, the fear, the despair - leave his body in one weary sigh. “That’s good. Are---has anyone visited me? I need to tell them---tell Ron and Harry and Hermione---tell them I’m  _ sorry. _ ”

“Oh, Ginny, love,” his mum sighs and reaches a hand out, sweeping his hair to the side, petting the side of his temple and cheek and he---he leans into the touch because no one’s ever touched him like this before but mum---this is how mum always is. “You don’t need to apologise. You did nothing wrong, okay? None of this was your fault.”

“But---” he tries, stammering but Mrs. Weasley shushes him and he goes quiet, tongue in his throat, heart in his mouth.

“No,” she says and her voice is firm now - but it’s still soft, “no. Listen to me: _ none of this was your fault.  _ None of it, you hear? Now I’m your mother - have I ever lied to you before?”

“No,” Tom whispers and it feels like a sob.

“There you go,” mum nods, moving her chair closer, her halo of red hair falling over her face like a flaming curtain. And she sighs, soft and tried, and leans down to kiss the top of his head. “I love you, baby, I love you. You’ll be okay, we’ll get through this and you’ll be all the stronger for it, yeah?”

And Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says with a quivering inhale, “yeah.”

“Good,” she pulls away from him with a small smile - pleased, she’s pleased - and slowly gets up from her seat, quietly and without rush as if she’s reluctant to leave him. He’s suddenly aware of how much he doesn’t want her to and he’s---he wants to say so but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out - Mrs. Cole always punished those who spoke out of turn; his knuckles were always black and blue and cracked and bleeding until he learned that children are meant to be seen and not heard - so he stays settled against the infirmary cot, nestled against the pillows and watches as his mum---Ginny’s mum---leaves. His eyes sting and he closes them against the tears, a sob stuck in his throat. He doesn’t let it out.

“I’m going to pop out and go get your brothers, alright?” mum calls from the door and he blinks his prickling eyes open, meeting her gentle, gentle, gentle brown - are his eyes still brown? Are they the same deep chocolate or are they muddy? Is there any of Tom to be found in the body? The faded scar around the base of his index finger from where it got caught when he was six, the nick in his eyebrow from when Ben Buck pushed him off the porch, the ugly healed gash on his knee from where he caught himself on his hands only to land knee-first into glass? Are there any remnants of the life he lived before evident on this body? Or is his soul the only thing he has now? “Ginny? Did you hear?”

He startles and looks at her again with wide eyes before nodding. “Yeah, yes, I heard you,” he says, clearing his throat. “Can you get---can you get Harry and Hermione too? I want to talk to them.”

“Of course, dear,” his mu---Mrs. Weasley---agrees easily, hand touching the door frame. “I’ll be just a moment.”

“Okay,” Tom murmurs but she’s already disappeared into the corridor and he’s---alone.

Tom doesn’t like being alone. He hates the silence of it. He hates---silence because there is something about silence. And it is a simple oxymoron: it is deafening. It is loud and it is intense. And it is too much for him.

Silence, for many, means peace. Silence, for Tom - for the boy locked in the coalshed, thrown in the attic, alone, unwanted - means pain. It is punishment. It is torment. It is suffering. It is lonely.

He doesn’t like silence.

He doesn't like how loud his breath sounds in the still of it, how his heartbeat seems thundering, the way the fabric on his body shifts seems deafening.

He doesn't like the sound of his body when he twists and turns on his lumpy mattress, the muted cracks and pops of bones buried under sinew and muscle in his shifting neck, and the low grind of his teeth -  _ popping, popping, popping, onetwothree, onetwothree. _

He doesn't like how loud these simple, mundane sounds seem in a silent room.

But, sometimes, he thinks he hates the noise even more.

He hates the moaning and screaming of his Billy Stubbs and Ben Buck and Dennis Bishop, the shrill and sharp reprimands of Mrs. Cole, the deep bellows of disgust and anger from the Father, the sound of their -  _ not his, never his _ \- neat little “home” settling. He hates the drips of the water from the kitchen faucet that he can hear so clearly in his room that he almost feels like he's lying next to it, the leak loud and persistent -  _ a constant agitation _ . 

However, despite the hatred he holds for silence, Tom was always - is - a quiet child. He rarely ever makes noise outside of breathing and small, necessary movements - even when injured -  _ when Mrs. Cole hits him  _ \- he refuses to utter even the tiniest of sounds; instead, biting his lip and exhaling slowly through his nose -  _ can't let them have the satisfaction; you won't make me cry. _

Tom hates silence.

So when he hears the clammer of eight - Ron, Fred and George, Percy, mum and dad, Harry and Hermione - he feels a bone-deep relief and allows a small smile to settle on his face. It’s not quiet anymore. They’ll chase the silence away; it won’t roar in his ears anymore.

“Ginny!” the twins - Fred and George - yell in unison and the sound is sharp and loud in the empty infirmary but it’s so welcome. And Tom’s smile grows, spreads wide on his face and---it’s unfamiliar and strange and odd but it---doesn’t feel wrong. “You’re alive!”

“Ginny, are you okay?” Percy asks over them, his eyes lined with stress and his mouth pinched. “Oh, dear, are you in pain? Mum! She’s crying!”

And Tom can’t help it. His vision blurs and his smile twists into a grimace and his hands come up to his face and he---hides this sudden pain away. And suddenly he wishes it was quiet and that he was alone again because this---this aching, bone-deep, heart-stuttering pain is too much to feel all at once and he can’t---he thought he got over this years ago. But now he’s crying, wailing like an infant and he can’t stop.

“Gin,” he hears Ron say softly and then a pair of arms wrap around his shoulders and then there’s another and another and another and another and he’s---so wrapped up in this little family---never his, not his, Ginny’s---and it almost feels like it’s okay---like it’s okay to pretend---to pretend this is all for him. “It’s okay. Get it all out, it’s okay, we’re here.”

And so he does.

He pretends this little handmade - because handmade is always best, always sincere, always means more - is for him. He pretends that when they think of him they see a little boy with brown hair and even darker eyes and a cold face that he can’t help but wear. He pretends they know the coldness isn’t real, that it’s a defense mechanism, that he’s just so tired of being hurt. He pretends they know how to make him laugh, know how to draw out the warmth gently flickering in his frostbitten soul. He pretends they know him as Tom and not---not Ginny. He pretends they’re his and he’s theirs.

And it hurts because he knows---he knows deep down that this little family---handmade and sweet and warm and comforting---isn’t his. They are not for him; they are for Ginny. And he only has them because he squeezed the life from her body and gorged himself on her vibrancy. And then he wormed his way into her soul and ate that too. And now he lives here in this vacant, hollowed out body he’d gutted. And that’s---

It’s almost unbearable.

But his family - and aren’t they his now? no. does this just have to be pretend? that’s all it ever will be. why can’t it be real? because he killed her, he killed her, he killed her - holds him close and soothes his aches and pains away and soon he can breathe easy - Ginny’s---his stolen lungs calm - again. And he sighs, shoulders going lax and Ron shifts and then the rest do. They release him and crowd around his cot, surrounding him with loving faces he shouldn’t know, he shouldn’t recognize any of them, he shouldn’t love them but---but Ginny did and he’s---this is his place now and his head now and his body now and---his love now.

“Feeling better, Gin?” Fred asks and George leans in closer.

“All cried out?” he asks and it’s not mocking but mum - Mrs. Weasley - smacks him on the arm all the same. “Ow! What’d you do that for?”

“Be nice,” she says and he gapes at her open-mouthed, looking at Fred for support and Tom---

He laughs.

And it’s sudden and loud and hiccuping for all the crying he’s done lately but it’s there.

And when he catches his breath, his family - they aren’t his, but isn’t it easier to think of them that way? or will it just make it hurt more when they realize that he isn’t their Ginny? how is he already mourning a family that he never had, that was never his? - is looking at him with wide smiles and relieved eyes - they loved her so much and he killed her.

“It’s okay, mum,” he mumbles sleepily and how is he still so tired? “I feel better, yeah. Think it’s almost worn off.”

“That’s good,” mum beams and she rubs his knee through the thin but warm infirmary sheets. Impulsively, he catches her hand in his and clutches at her like his life depends on it leftover desperation, leftover despair - remnants of every ugly emotion that’s swirled in his chest - flushing through his arm and out through his tightly clenched fingers. And for a moment, when her eyes widen and her mouth goes lax in surprise, he thinks he’s gone too far - that this was the breaking point in this fragile facade, the crack in the mask that gives him away - but then her hand tightens on his and she smiles. And that fear deflates and leaves him empty and worn.

He’s so tired.

But he can’t sleep just yet.

“‘arry? ‘mione?” he forces through unwillingly, sleep heavy lips and tongue. “Ya ‘ere?”

And he thinks he can hear soft murmurs of confusion, hushed whispers: “Why is she talking like that?” and, “Is that Cockney?” and, “Hush! She’s just sleepy, let her rest. Harry and Hermione, dears, can you come here, please?”

But that all fades out and when there’s a rustling next to him, he tries to look for the source only to realize his eyes are close. With some effort, he opens them and focuses them on two slightly blurred forms - Harry and Hermione. He thinks he tries to smile.

“Ginny?” Harry whispers softly, leaning in closer with Hermione. Tom grimaces at the name - it’s not his, it’s the girl’s whose body he stole, the girl he killed, the second person he’s stolen life from - and looks away. 

“You wanted to talk to us?” Hermione prompts gently and he blinks in surprise, turning his face to look at them again. Their faces are pulled into thoughtful, worried expressions and he wonders what he did to make them look like that. “What about?”

“‘m sorry,” he breathes and for a moment it looks like they didn’t hear him but then Harry’s face clears and he frowns. “Didn’t mean ta hur’ ya, I swear. Didn’t wanna hur’ anyone. ‘m sorry.”

Hermione bites her lip. “Ginny,” she begins, her face troubled, “none of that was your fault. It was---was Voldemort’s, not you.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, his eyes dark and unreadable, “it wasn’t---it wasn’t  _ you. _ ”

And Tom hums sleepily, protesting but his eyes are so heavy and he can’t keep them open for long.

“C’mon, let’s leave her to rest, yeah?” he thinks he hears dad say. “She’s been through a right mess.”

And there’s a chorus of protests, but he hears them leaving and he exhales slowly. But when he struggles to open his eyes again and looks, he’s not alone.

Harry is there, standing just inside the doorway, looking back at him with that unreadable look in his eyes. And Tom smiles, lips moving, mouthing, “But it was,” before unconsciousness claims him.

The last thing he sees is Harry’s horrified face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't be shy!!! have some more angst!!!
> 
> check out my server: [spicy hot takes!](https://discord.gg/UBpDYdQ)
> 
> and yell at me on tumblr: [iwishihadbrain.](https://iwishihadbrain.tumblr.com/)


	3. the liar, the honest

The next time Tom wakes up, he’s alone. His mum---Mrs. Weasley---is absent from his bedside - he ignores the hurt that causes and casts his eyes around the room. It’s empty; he’s truly alone. With limbs smaller than he’s used to, he shifts - throws his stolen, unfamiliar legs over the side of the bed, watches them dangle in the air before letting himself fall to the floor, bare feet slapping against the cold stone. 

As soon as his skin meets the stone floor, a gasp leaves his lips and goosebumps break out across his skin - not from the cold, no, but from the sheer magic that surges through his small body at the contact. It’s so much so suddenly - he’d almost forgotten what Hogwarts had felt like, why he’d loved it so much, but now---now it’s all so clear again. He inhales shakily and closes his eyes, embraces the slight stinging pain this overwhelming magic gives, and bites back the tears it brings.

He’s---he’s so happy he can still do this - that he can still _feel_ the magic so acutely, so strongly that it burns in his veins. He’s---he’s glad he didn’t lose it.

On shuffling feet - he doesn’t want to lose this contact with Hogwarts - he approaches the bathroom, closing the door behind him before looking at the face in the mirror. It’s not his, is the first thing he notices and what a _stupid_ thing to notice. Of course, it isn’t his. He _stole_ it, he stole it from a little girl, god, she was only eleven and he _killed her, he killed her, he_ **_killed her._ **

Brown eyes - muddy, they’re a muddy brown, he misses the deep cinnamon he had before, he misses---brown eyes widen in something akin to panic - _fear, fear, fear, this isn’t you, this isn’t you, you’re trapped in this body, trapped, trapped, trapped, just like in the coalshed, will you freeze to death this time?_ \- and this face that isn’t his but he wears all the same twists into an expression of despair and guilt and deep, deep sadness. 

And why does this hurt so much? Why does it hurt _so much?_ He’s hurt so many people before, so many people. He broke Ben Buck’s arm, he killed Billy Stubbs’ rabbit - he hung it from the rafters - he tortured Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, he killed Myrtle Warren -- he’s done so many bad things, so why does it hurt? 

How _dare_ he act like the victim.

The eyes harden and the mouth curls into a snarl, the face now a perfect picture of rage and disgust. His hand---it’s not his, it’s not his, _it’s not his_ \---rears back and plants itself in the mirror. It shatters and the reflection of the face breaks into what feels like hundreds and they’re all _staring at him---_

His magic - and it’s still the same, it’s still his, it’s his, it’s his, it’s his - swells up and the mirror knits itself back together, forming one face once more and he sighs. He’s so tired and his hand is bleeding, scraped, and bruising from punching the mirror - the worst of it was taken care of by his magic, but Dark cores can only heal so much. He thrusts it under the tap and runs cold water over it, watching the water tinge pink for a few long, idly stretching moments before blotting at it with a tissue, discarding the soiled paper as he leaves.

As he walks out of the bathroom and into the infirmary again, he runs into a warm body and exhales at the jostle, his tired body stumbling back. Hands reach out to steady him and he comes face to face with brilliant green eyes - the color of _Avada Kedavra,_ the Killing Curse. 

Harry Potter.

“Harry?” he asks, the surprise in his voice very, very real, his eyes widening. “I---why are---is something wrong?”

Harry’s face, which had been closed off and cold, softens and his eyes warm over. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says with a soft laugh. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go to the Leaving Feast? Madam Pomfrey said you’re free to go - if you want, that is.”

“Oh,” Tom says dumbly before he musters a smile, forces the expression on this face, and tries not to think of the little girl it once belonged to. He doesn’t succeed. “Yeah, I’d like to go.”

“Great!” Harry says, his voice warm and friendly, but there’s---there’s something in his eyes, something Tom doesn’t like: suspicion. It makes his blood run cold. “We can walk together?”

Tom nods and Harry smiles - something wide and bright and it makes Tom breathless. It lights up his face and brings even more attention to his eyes - if that’s even possible. Tom clears his throat, face hot, and looks away.

“Do you know where my---my mum went?” he asks, the words fitting oddly in his mouth - he’s never been able to ask that question before. “She wasn’t here when I woke up.”

Harry blinks, eyes flicking to the bedside table next to Tom’s cot. “Her and your dad had to go get everything ready to meet you all at the train station,” he explains, handing Tom a slip of paper- he must’ve missed it. “She left you a note, but I s’pose you didn’t see it.”

“Okay,” Tom murmurs, taking the paper, skimming over it once before crumbling it up, discarding it as they leave the infirmary room and step out into the hall. Harry is silent beside him, eyes intense and burning and Tom---Tom doesn’t like it. “Do you think---does anyone know that it was---that it was me?”

Something dark glints in Harry’s eyes when he faces him - alight with something unreadable that Tom finds so very familiar - but then he blinks and it’s gone. His face shifts back into something open and earnest and friendly, but it’s too late. Tom’s already seen the deep-seated suspicion once before and now---now he’s seen this too; something that looks like judgment.

“No,” Harry says, his voice soft and comforting - and it sounds real, but Tom can’t trust it. Still, he finds himself wanting it to be real. “They don’t know and they won’t. ‘sides, it wasn’t you anyway.”

Tom looks away, a sardonic smile taking place on his face. “If you say so.”

He catches Harry looking at him oddly, but he doesn’t say anything and they continue down the hall. And soon they’re standing just outside the doors of the Great Hall and Tom is nervous. Beside him, Harry shuffles from one foot to another and Tom looks at him, just now noticing that he’s in his pajamas - just like Tom. Harry catches him looking and smiles at him before pushing the doors open.

And Tom’s been to several Hogwarts’ feasts, but never one like this. Just like he and Harry, everyone is in their pajamas and the atmosphere is boisterous. Hectic. Loud. Buzzing. Tom blinks in shock when Hermione runs towards them, towards Harry, screaming “You solved it! You solved it!” and then some Hufflepuff hurries over from his table, wringing his hands before apologizing to Harry for suspecting him, and then Hagrid turns up at half-past three, cuffing Harry and Ron so hard on the shoulders that they are knocked into their plates of trifle, and then Harry and Ron win four hundred points for Gryffindor securing the House Cup for the second year running, and then Professor McGonagall stands up to tell them all that the exams have been canceled as a school treat (“Oh, no!” Hermione says, horrified and Tom privately agrees with her), and then Dumbledore’s announcing that, unfortunately, Professor Lockhart will be unable to return next year, since he needs to go away and get his memory back. Quite a few of the teachers join in on the cheering that greets that news. 

“Shame,” says Ron, passing Tom a jam doughnut before helping himself to one - it’s their favorite---it was Ginny’s favorite, they used to make them together, they never will again. “He was starting to grow on me.”

And Tom cracks a smile at that and Ron beams at him, pleased and relieved all at once and it’s---it’s good. But it’s over too soon and before he knows it, it’s time for bed and then it’s the next day---the end of term, they’re going home, he’s going home and---and Ginny isn’t.

And they’re almost at King’s Cross Station when Harry turns to him, a curious glint in his eyes.

“Ginny---” and doesn’t that name sound awful? It sounds so _wrong._ “What did you see Percy doing, that he didn’t want you to tell anyone?”

“Oh,” Tom blinks, sifting through Ginny’s memories - memories he’d painstakingly sorted through last night - to find the right one, “that. He’s got a girlfriend.”

Fred drops a stack of books on George’s head. “What?”

“Yes, it’s that Ravenclaw Prefect - Penelope Clearwater,” Tom says dismissively with a sniff, disinterested in this gossip but providing it nonetheless. “That’s who he was writing to all summer. He’s been meeting her all over the school in secret - not that they were any good at _keeping_ it secret since I found them snogging in an empty classroom one day. A classroom, _really?_ Honestly. It’s why he was so… _upset_ when she was attacked. You won’t tease him, will you?” he finishes with a knowing smirk.

Fred flashes him an evil grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Definitely not,” George agrees, snickering.

Tom nods sagely like he understands - their faces light up and they turn to each other, whispering intently and he leaves them to it. He sighs quietly to himself and turns to look out of the window, watching as the ground slowly comes into focus as the train slows to a stop. Tom closes his eyes, gathers what little courage he has - he was never meant for Gryffindor - and stands to pull his trunk out, thankful for the featherlight charm he’d cast on it -- it was slightly more difficult than he remembered, but it isn’t surprising what with Ginny’s wand actively rejecting him --- the palm of his hand is red with faded burns from handling it.

“This is a telephone number,” he overhears Harry saying to Ron and Hermione. He turns to watch as the Boy-Who-Lived scribbles down the string of numbers twice on a piece of parchment, tearing in two to give them both a copy. “I told your dad how to use a telephone last summer - he’ll know. Call me at the Dursleys’, okay? I can’t stand another two months with only Dudley to talk to…”

Tom’s interest is piqued and he pays closer attention as Harry converses with his friends, planting himself in the conversation with little regard to whether they want him to or not. He ignores that look in Harry’s eyes; he’s seen it enough times now to know it’s not going anyway, so there’s no point in worrying about it.

“Do you have to stay with them?” he asks lowly, cutting in right before Hermione can open her mouth. Harry’s eyes clear and he frowns. “Can’t you stay with someone else? Who’s your magical guardian?”

“What?” Harry blinks. “Magical guardian? What?”

Tom frowns. “Yes, your magical guardian. You should have one, especially since you’re the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. Didn’t anyone tell you about this?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter,” Harry sighs, grimacing. “I have to stay with the Dursleys; there are blood wards there that’ll keep me safe.”

“Safe?” Tom echoes, face cold. “Yes, I suppose they will keep you safe - from Voldemort, but what about them? What will keep you safe from them?”

“Why---what’re you---” Harry cuts himself off and glares at him, anger simmering in his eyes - they’re the color of acid. “What do _you_ know?”

Ah, he’s angry with Tom - understandable, seeing as he looks like Ginny, dear little Ginny with a loving family and home. How could she _ever_ understand? Well, she wouldn’t. But she’s dead. And Tom’s here now and he _knows._

In response, he raises an eyebrow and looks over Harry’s thin frame pointedly, watching idly as understanding blooms on Harry’s face and he flushes, looking away from Tom’s eyes. “I know enough,” Tom says smoothly, pushing past the trio. “If I were you, I’d visit Gringotts and look into my rights - might get you out of there quicker than waiting for Voldemort to keel over.”

And with that, he steps out of the train and right into the arms of the Weasley matriarch - Molly Weasley. And he finds himself dropping his trunk at his feet and flinging his arms around her, hugging her tightly, and then Mr. Weasley is there, scooping him up out of his mum’s embrace, folding him into a hug so tight that it knocks the breath right out of him, but that’s okay. It’s warm.

“Ginny, dear, are you alright?” his---Ginny’s---mum asks when dad releases him and he’s back on his feet. He nods and she smiles, relieved. “That’s good, love. I’m glad you’re feeling better and I’m sure you’ll be feeling much better once we get home. Your father and I have exciting news.”

“Really?” Tom asks, unable to stop himself, stepping away from the train as Harry and the others step off. “What is it?”

“We’ll tell you and your brothers when we get home,” she tells him before a conspiratorial look transpires over her face. “Or I could tell you now - just between us girls. Well, and your father too, I suppose.”

Tom hides the grimace and makes a pleading expression, waiting for her to bestow this new information. He firmly ignores the way her words make him feel - he can deal with that later. Instead, he plays the act of a little girl eager to be let in on a secret and smiles against the unpleasant churning of his stomach.

It doesn’t matter right now.

“What is it?” he repeats, feigning excitement - the interest, however, is genuine. Mrs. Weasley smiles and leans down to whisper in his ear. The gasp he lets out isn’t fake at all and the fake excitement quickly becomes real. “Really? And we’re going this summer?”

“That’s right,” mum---Mrs. Weasley, she isn’t your mum---nods proudly and he smiles widely, bubbling energy surging through his veins. “I’m sure we’ll have loads of fun. Oh, I can’t wait!”

“Yeah,” he agrees eagerly before he pauses, looking over his shoulder, eyes landing on Harry’s dejected figure - he looks so small, almost broken, lonely. Tom knows the feeling. He meets Mrs. Weasley’s eyes again. “Can Harry come with us?”

“Oh, Ginny, just because you have a crush on that poor boy doesn’t mean---” Tom cuts her off.

“That’s not why I’m asking,” he snaps shortly, rage flaring quick and hot. He breathes in deeply to calm himself before elaborating. “I ask because I don’t think his relatives treat him very well - he’s so thin, for one, and Ron said his uncle put bars - _bars_ , mum - on his window,” his voice is almost scathing when he finishes and he doesn’t dare meet her eyes, easily using this nervous show to his advantage - he drives his point home with his next few words. “And mum I think---I saw bruises. Big ones. They looked---they looked like hands - very large ones. And they looked very painful. I---I think they abuse him, mum.”

Mrs. Weasley inhales sharply. “I thought your brother was exaggerating,” she says, her voice low. She leans in closer, one hand tilting Tom’s face up so she can look into his eyes, her face troubled. “Are you sure, love? Are you absolutely positive that’s what you saw?”

Tom nods, his eyes widening, becoming frightened, voice a trembling whisper, “Harry told---he told To---the diary when he wrote to---when he wrote in it and he---it told me.”

“I see. Thank you for telling me, dear,” she strokes his cheek gently, planting a kiss on his forehead before pulling away, eyes hard. “I’ll go and have a chat with Harry, alright? Keep your brother company for me, would you, dear? I don’t want to worry him; he cares very much for Harry.”

“Of course,” Tom nods, watching her walk up to that small - too small, far too small - boy before he goes to Ron, dead-set on distracting him. “Did Hermione already leave?”

Ron jolts, startled, hand on his chest. “Merlin, Ginny, you scared the bloody hell outta me!”

“Did I?” Tom raises an eyebrow and smiles. “You seem fine to me. Answer my question.”

“What?” he blinks. “Oh, yeah, she’s left. Her parents were in a hurry - something about a den-tist ap-point-ment, whatever that is.”

“Oh, her parents are dentists? That must be why she’s so strict about sweets,” Tom mumbles, briefly turning his head to check on Mrs. Weasley and Harry, feeling strangely guilty at the overwhelmed look on the boy’s face. He turns back to Ron, torn for one moment before making up his mind. “I told mum. About Harry’s relatives.”

“You did what?” Ron snaps, face flushing - is he angry? “Why did you do that? Harry doesn’t want anyone to know!”

Tom glares at him. “Would you rather he stay with them and die?” he snaps, pleased when Ron flinches, the anger leaving him in one fell swoop. “People like that don’t just stop or become better, Ron. They get worse because they get better at it - better at hiding it. And then they get comfortable and when you get comfortable, you take things too far. It doesn’t matter that Harry doesn’t want anyone to know when they could have very well beat him to death!”

He’s panting by the end of his rant, face likely just as red as Ron’s was a minute ago - likely just as red as Ginny’s hair. And Ron’s looking at him with wide eyes and parted lips, shell-shocked. And Tom remembers himself, remembers where he is and _who_ he is.

He’s slipped up.

He looks away, lips thin and eyes pinched, ignoring Ron as his expression morphs from shock to concern. His mind races and he quickly forms an excuse for this behavior - it’s nothing like Ginny. It’s on the tip of his tongue, ready for when Ron inevitably questions him.

“Ginny?” Ron starts, subdued, looking down at the ground before meeting Tom’s guarded gaze. “What happened? Why do you know that? You’re not---you’re---was it Vol---You-Kno---was it the diary?”

“It was,” Tom answers cooly after a few seconds, letting the moment drag on before forcing his lips to move. “But not in the way you think.”

“Then what?” he asks, bright blue eyes dark. A part of Tom pangs sharply at the sight - he never wanted to make his brother look so defeated.

“When To---when the diary took me over, it wasn’t---I wasn’t completely gone,” he starts haltingly, stammering as if he’s afraid of saying it all out loud. Ron’s face is kind and patient and he takes one of Tom’s hands in his, squeezing in an attempt to soothe. “And I---I felt what he felt. There was---there was a sort of bleed over between us and it---he wasn’t---he wasn’t happy, Ron, he was so hurt. Like---like Harry is and I---it hurt me too.”

“Ginny,” Ron mumbles, lips pulled into a frown, eyes tight, “that’s awful. I’m---I’m sorry.”

Tom shakes his head. “It’s okay - it’s not your fault. Besides, you and Harry saved me. I’m okay now. I will be.”

Ron smiles weakly and squeezes his hand again, looking up when Mrs. Weasley---their mother---returns with Harry’s trunk in one hand and the boy’s owl cage in the other. Harry himself is trailing behind her, eyes downcast and shoulder hunched like he would give anything for the earth to swallow him whole. Ron’s hand tightens on his and Tom squeezes back, smiling when Ron gives him a thankful look.

“Ginny, Ron, would you two be dears and take Harry here to the car? He’s going to be staying with us this summer,” mu---Mrs. Weasley says, smiling down at the boy kindly, her eyes sad when he flushes at the attention and scuffs his shoes on the ground, fidgeting in place.

Tom nods and pulls Ron with him, grabbing Harry’s wrist, looping his thumb and index finger around the thin bones, pulling him away from their mothe---from Mrs. Weasley and towards the enchanted barrier. Harry goes with them willingly - Ron sends him a -- forcibly -- excited smile that he returns - and together they walk into the Muggle world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will continue to change things drastically
> 
> check out my server: [spicy hot takes!](https://discord.gg/UBpDYdQ)
> 
> and yell at me on tumblr: [iwishihadbrain.](https://iwishihadbrain.tumblr.com/)


	4. bones too big for your body (you're breaking the skin)

Traveling with the Weasley's is hectic - they are loud and happy and energetic and it is too much for Tom. And it is too much for Harry.

From where he's sitting next to Ron - who's right Harry occupies - the boy is curled into himself, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched, hands balled into fists. He's clearly very uncomfortable and when Tom looks out of the window of the Ford Anglia - and isn't it such a strange automobile? tom must confess himself impressed with the improvement on Muggle engineering; the vehicle really is significantly better than the ones in his time - he notices that his posture is much the same. His long, red hair - Ginny's long, red hair, Molly's long, red hair, not his - is shielding his face like a curtain. He firmly ignores the sick twist of his stomach at the sight of that small, feminine face where _he_ should be - he can't focus on anything else, and isn't that _pathetic?_

Suddenly, fiercely, he _hates_ himself - a deep mental anguish the likes of which he has never felt before washes over him. The waves are thunderous and forceful and they do not care that he cannot breathe. He can claw and scream and thrash and fight and beg all he wants, but he knows the waves will not stop. This ocean of self-loathing is consuming him. It opens its maw and swallows him whole, adds him and his bitter tears to its terrifying expanse. He wonders how many it has torn apart and eaten? It's growing bigger and bigger. He's drowning and he's glad - he's _so_ glad, so fiercely glad that he could cry. He deserves this, he deserves this, he deserves this, he _deserves th----_

_"Ah!"_ he hears someone gasp in pain - it's a sharp noise and it startles him out of his trance. His hands shake against his face and he realizes slowly that he's got the palms of his hands pushed against his eyes - hard enough that it hurts and he can see blocks of color on his eyelids. He pulls them away and pushes his hair away from his eyes - some of it sticks to his face and neck, he notes, forcing the thick strands away with trembling fingers. He's sweating and his chest heaves silently - was he hyperventilating as well? His head feels fuzzy - like it's filled with cotton balls and Mrs. Cole's cheap perfume and the heavy scent of gin clinging to her breath. And he---he feels like he's---like she's been yelling at him and he's been---he's been crying, but when he reaches up to touch his cheeks they’re dry. He feels like he's dying, he feels like he's living, he feels like everything and nothing, like everything in between. His chest hurts and his heart---his breastbone is _breaking_.

"Harry?" he hears Ron---Ron Weasley, Ginny's brother, the girl you _killed_ , the soul you _ate_ , she's dead, _she's dead,_ ** _she's dead,_** _and_ _it's_ ** _all YOUR FAULT_** \- asks and he breathes in through his nose deeply, ignoring the leftover shake to his limbs---like Mrs. Cole took a cane to his hands again; his fingers were long and elegant once, but now they are crooked, she broke them, she broke _him._ Tom is burning, but he's drowning. "Harry, are you alright? You're shak---Ginny? Are you alright? Are you---can you hear me? Mum! Something's wrong with Harry and Ginny!"

Faintly, Tom realizes he's crying. This realization does nothing - he can't stop; he can't do anything. _His body doesn't belong to him._ It isn't listening to him. He can't move. His head hurts, his eyes are burning, his mouth and nose are filled with water, his bones are bursting out of his skin, he is _dying and no one can see it._

There's a searing pain in his head - centered above his right eye, right inside his scar, but he doesn’t have a scar there, he doesn’t, he does, he _doesn’t. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, no, no, no, no, you’re wrong, I don’t, I don’t, yes, yes, I do, no, it’s not mine, you’re not me, this is my body, mine, get out get out get out get out get out get out get out g_ **_ETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOU_ ** _\---_

Someone’s screaming. It takes him a moment to realize it’s him and Harry. Two anguish, panic-filled screams leaving their mouths, tearing through their throats with a ripping ache, like shards of glass and ice and fire. It burns, it sears, it cuts, it freezes. Tom’s head---Harry’s scar---it _hurts._

And then everything fades to black - for one split second he’s back in the diary, in a world made of ink and tears and paper, and he’s so tired and so scared and he wants to breathe, he wants to cry, he wants to scream, but he’s made of ink and tears and paper and he can’t do any of that - but it doesn’t stay that way. The pain drifts away like a thick red-hazed fog and his vision clears, light filtering back into the suffocating black of ink and he takes in a heaving breath, his clothes sticking to his sweat-slicked skin unpleasantly. His hands shake and he rubs at his forehead - a direct parallel to Harry - and he winces at the residual ache - he feels as though he’s been put under the _Cruciatis_. 

“Ginny, Harry, are you two alright?” mum---Mrs. Weasley---asks and he nods, dazed and not all there. His head is buzzing. “Are you sure, dear? Come here, let me get a look at you.”

She reaches towards him and pulls him closer - they’re landed and pulled over, when did that happen? - looking him over and checking his temperature with a troubled expression on her face before doing the same for Harry. Ron is behind her, standing with the twins and Percy, wringing his hands together worriedly. They’re all pale - they look stricken. 

“Mum,” Tom tries but no sound comes out. He tries again, his voice dry and cracking, a thick rasp in the back of his throat with no substance. His mouth tastes like blood. “Mum. Mum, what happened? My head hurts.”

Mrs. Weasley’s face pinches oddly before she smiles, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing, dear. You and Harry here had a bit of a migraine, it seems. You’re okay.”

Tom nods, but he doesn’t believe her. He vividly remembers the pain - his limbs are still shaking from the aftershocks - and he remembers the voice in his head. The voice wasn’t his. _It wasn’t his._

Harry gasps in raggedly, still catching his breath, a strained look on his face. Tom turns to look at him and Harry meets his eyes, that same unreadable emotion flashing through them before it’s replaced with something like understanding. They both know that wasn’t just a migraine; they know that Mrs. Weasley is lying to them, but why? Why would she lie?

Tom loses himself in his thoughts, looking away from Harry, absently climbing back into the car, pressing tightly against the Boy-Who-Lived to allow his brothers to crawl in behind him. Mum smiles at him and Harry one more time before she returns to the passenger seat. Mr. Weasley---dad---looks at them through the rear mirror with dark, worried eyes forced cheerful and then they’re off. Tom turns to the side, looking over Harry to the world passing them by.

They think that was Voldemort.

_Well_ , he thinks ruefully, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips, _they’re not wrong._

It wasn’t Voldemort. Just Tom Marvolo Riddle.

And isn’t it odd then that the voice in his head was Harry Potter’s?

* * *

The Burrow is disturbingly familiar to him even though he’s never been there, but hasn’t he? At least, in a way. Ginny slept here, played here, laughed here, _lived_ here. And he has her memories, so doesn’t that count for something? Doesn’t that mean that this is his too? Or is he taking too much from her long-dead soul when he’s already taken everything? He’s taken her family, he’s taken her memories, he’s taken her body - the least he can do is distance himself from it all. But he doesn’t think he’s strong enough for that.

He’s always wanted family so badly that it was a permanent ache deep in his chest, a crack along his sternum that bled and bled and bled and bled. And now he has a family---a family he _stole,_ it isn’t his, never his---and it’s staunched the wound, wrapped it up and eased its ache. And he feels so horribly guilty for it---so guilty that he’s stepped so fully into Ginny’s empty shoes---that he’s killed her and lied---lied to her family about it---lied to _his_ family about---about it all---that he’ll keep lying---that they’ll never know. But he doesn’t want to go back.

He wants to keep this handmade family because they---they love him---they loved Ginny and now he looks like her and that’s---it’s not what he wants but it’s---it’s good enough. It’s good enough. It’s good enough.

It’s not real and it’s not his, not really, but it’s more than he’s ever had before. And he selfishly, impossibly, wants to keep it. Is that so bad?

Yes.

He’s never felt more like a monster.

“Ron, dear, why don’t you show Harry to your room? He’ll be sharing with you,” Ginny’s mum says softly and Ron nods, turning to Harry with a small smile that Tom recognizes from his stolen memories - it’s the one he used when he had nightmares after Luna’s mum died, and Luna died too, just in a different way. It had scared him, but Ron had smiled for him. He’d made it better. Tom wonders if it’s making Harry feel better too. Mrs. Weasley smiles at him. “You can go with them, Ginny.”

“Yes, mum,” he says numbly, mouth cold and dead like it’s supposed to be. He’s puppeting a corpse. Ron takes his hand with that concerned look in his eyes that he doesn’t deserve. Tom feels oddly slow, like he’s wading through a river of molasses. He follows behind as Ron drags him and Harry up the stairs to his bedroom.

A tiny little room, a bed, a dresser, a window. Tom sees double. There’s a cold, grey-white prison and then he blinks and the walls are bursting with color. Chudley Cannons posters cover the walls and the floor is carpeted with a handmade rug thrown down on top, the bed is soft and quilted and warm, and there are shelves lining the walls with books and trinkets and odds and ends. And something in Tom settles at the familiar sight. This is his brother’s room and he is safe here.

“It’s not much,” Ron is telling Harry---Harry, who sees this and sees everything he’s ever wanted---and Tom sighs, pushes past him, sits on his bed. The mattress is worn, but it’s soft. “But it’s home. I think mum’s gonna make you a bed, so you won’t sleep on the floor.”

“Do you think mum will let me sleep in here?” Tom finds himself asking, the words forcing themselves past his deadened tongue and lips. His fingers twist in the quilt. Pull, twist, rub, pull. Repeat. Pull, twist, rub, pull. Repeat. Pull, twist, rub, pull. The fabric feels nice. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Ron’s face is odd. Sad, but not - like he’s trying to keep Tom from noticing. That’s too bad for him; Tom’s spent years practicing emotions in the mirror. He knows what they look like on faces. And Ron’s too young to hide them.

“I’ll go ask her, okay?” he says, his voice gentle and sweet like it always is when he thinks Tom is scared. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Tom says after his retreating back. He feels grateful, he thinks, but he’s still too shaken to tell. Everything is rattled around inside his skull and it’s slipping through the cracks. Away from him. 

“That---in the car---it was _him_ , wasn’t it? Voldemort,” Harry says after a few short moments of silence like the words were waiting just behind the close of his teeth. Tom inhales, exhales, pull, twist, rub, pull. “I--I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about it.”

“It was,” Tom says on an exhale, fingers tugging. “It was him. It---felt the same.”

“Did it?” Harry asks and Tom turns his head to look at him. He swallows, smiles shakily. It falls off his face like dripping ink. Pull, twist, rub, pull. “He felt like that before? All of that---of that _hurt._ He feels like that?”

“Yes.”

Harry stills. Tom closes his eyes and then, “Oh. That’s really---I feel---no one deserves to feel like that.”

“Maybe he does,” Tom points out, looking at the raven-haired boy again. “He’s a bad man. He’s done horrible things.”

“Great,” Harry corrects, a faraway look in his eyes. “Terrible, but great.”

Tom doesn’t know how to respond to that---his chest feels warm, but it hurts; bittersweet, almost---so he doesn’t. He looks back down at the quilt, and pulls, twists, rubs, pulls. The pattern is soothing and grounding, and no one’s told him to stop yet. His head settles into something clear and solid - the fog is clearing. He feels steadier, less likely to topple over and shatter into a million pieces.

Harry breathes silently, but Tom can still hear him. The rise and fall of his chest feels like his own. He matches his rhythm and allows his shoulders to relax. His left hand forms into a gentle fist and he runs his thumb over his index finger, rubbing the skin soothingly.

He ignores the freckles on the back of his hand, and the splash of red in the corner of his vision. He's fine.

"Did you---when that---your---" he cuts himself off, bites his lip, chances a quick glance at Harry's eyes before settling on the bridge of his nose. "It was your voice… in my head. Did that---did that happen to you too? Was I in your head too?"

Harry's nose doesn't answer, so he looks into his eyes. The green is dark and unreadable. But his face is thoughtful. Tom can see that much. He doesn't think he can hide from Harry Potter.

"Yeah," Harry says finally, swallowing before opening his mouth to say more but---

\---the door opens and Tom looks away to see Ron’s happy grin. His head tilts to the side. “Mum said that it’d be fine. She also said we’re going on a trip, and you can share with me and Harry then too. Can you believe it, Gin? We get to go on a trip!”

Harry shuffles his feet. “Where?”

“Africa!” Ron’s chest puffs up in pride. “Dad won something at the Ministry, so we get to go to Egypt for a month. We’re going to see the pyramids, mate!”

"Mum already told me," Tom sniffs, picking up the quilt between two fingers again. Pull, twist, rub, pull. Repeat. "'Just between us girls,' she said. And Dad, too, I guess."

"Well, of course, she'd tell _you_ before anyone else," Ron says before his mouth snaps closed with an audible clack. Tom tenses, fingers halting. He feels like he's been hit with a _Petrificus Totalus_. His mouth tastes sour. "I'm---I'm sorry."

His lips are pinched weirdly and it feels strange. He runs his thumb over his index finger a few times and nods, words lodged in his throat. He doesn't understand why that hurt---why that comment made him feel heavy. He's not Ginny. Nothing happened to him in the Chamber. It shouldn't have hurt.

He clears his throat. "She didn't tell me when we're leaving."

"In a couple of weeks," Ron says with a relieved sigh. Tom nods, forcing his hands to be still. His eyes catch his trunk and he pushes off the bed to approach it, pulling his wand - Ginny's wand, it's not his and it burns his skin, but it's yew and it channels his magic easily enough - out quickly followed by his school books and some writing supplies. "What're you doing, Gin?"

"Might as well get our summer homework done and over with," Tom answers, returning to his spot on Ron's bed. He pulls his legs up with him this time, sitting criss-cross with _Magical Drafts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger in his lap - boring essays first. Snape really makes potions a chore. Tom almost misses Slughorn. "That way we won't have to worry about it."

"But we have all summer!" Ron protests, eyes wide. Tom smiles, twirls his quill between his fingers, and begins writing. "Ugh, you're going to turn into Percy."

"That's mean," Tom says without looking up, beginning his introduction paragraph. His handwriting looks enough like Ginny's, he thinks. Maybe a little bit neater. "I think I'm more like Hermione, actually."

"I think that's worse," Harry laughs softly. Tom looks up to see his eyes crinkled with mirth. It makes the breath in his chest feel light. "Imagine having two Hermione's, Ron. It'd be a nightmare."

Tom smirks. "Doesn't she proofread and correct your essays for you?"

"Sometimes," Ron allows, lips pursed. "But for History of Magic and Potions."

"Well, I can read the others," Tom declares, finishing the first paragraph with a flick of his wrist. "I'm already great at everything."

"Modest," Harry mumbles and Tom snickers, starting the second. "But, yeah, she's got a point, Ron. She already makes better grades than both of us. C'mon, we should work too."

Ron looks betrayed. "Fine," he says, mutinous, collecting his things before plopping down next to Tom.

Normally, Tom would hiss at the invasion of space, but this is his brother. It's okay if it's family. He's never had family. 

Neither has Harry.

So when Harry joins them on the bed after Ron pulls him into their half circle, and it's a little crowded, Tom finds he doesn't mind. And as he finishes up his first essay, helping Harry and Ron as he does so, he finds himself feeling a tentative happiness.

He'll allow himself this. For now.

* * *

Time flies by quickly with the Weasleys, Tom finds. He thinks he and Harry both are struck dumb at how easy it is at this lively home. It's hard at first, for both of them, but when nothing happens, when there are no harsh punishments for simple mistakes, they tentatively relax. And Tom knows that is weird for him - for him to be so cautious around his own family---but they aren't his family, are they?---but he can't help it. And he isn't as good as hiding it as he would like to be judging by Harry's increasingly more suspicious looks.

Despite that, Tom is having a surprising amount of fun. He feels safe and warm and loved. He sleeps in a comfortable bed, he is given clothes that feel soft on his skin, he is fed and watered regularly - and even allowed snacks! - and he is allowed to take long baths. The Weasley's are good people, he knows. Ginny's memories proved that, but it's still---it's still nice to experience it himself.

(Sometimes he thinks he's glad he's in her place now, and he hates himself for it.)

The trip to Africa - Egypt, to be specific - is wonderful. Bill is there when they arrive and greets them all with enthusiastic hugs. They're just like Ginny's memories tell him they are - warm and strong and safe.

(Tom likes feeling safe.)

Bill gives them a grand tour, and takes them around all of the tombs, eagerly showing them curses and artifacts inside. Tom finds it all very fascinating, but mum---Mrs. Weasley---doesn't let him into the last one they visit. When he asks her once they're at their hotel, she says something dismissive about the experience being bad for girls.

And that's a problem Tom is tired of being reminded of. 

He's not a girl. This body is. His name is Tom. This body is named Ginny. He doesn't have a family. This body does.

He's---he's glad to have a family now, even if---even if it is stolen. But everytime they call him Ginny or Gin, or refer to him as a girl, his stomach lurches unpleasantly and his chest feels heavy. It almost feels like there is a weight in his lungs or heart, or maybe attached to his ribs. Either way, it is an unpleasant, almost itching feeling, and he is sick of it.

He doesn't know how to fix it.

Their trip ends just as quickly as it begins, and soon they're back in London. Tom doesn't feel too put out by it. He would've liked to study a bit more in Egypt and maybe research a few of those curses, but he'd browsed enough books - and stolen quite a few - that he has enough to keep himself occupied. He can always go back later, if need be.

There's an uproar about Harry's birthday once they're back, and the black-haired boy is flooded with letters from Hermione and gifts from everyone else. Tom gives him a rare book on defensive spells - from their homework and study sessions, he knows the boy loves DADA - that he nicked from one of the bookstores in Egypt. Harry takes it with wide eyes and gives him that smile that makes his stomach squirm weirdly and his face feel hot. Tom ignores it.

(That night, long after Ron's fallen asleep, and the stars are high in the sky, Harry rolls over to have his bed and asks, "hey, are you awake?"

"Yeah," Tom whispers back, turning his head to look at Harry's dark eyes. They look like a forest green in this low light. But he knows they aren't - somehow he knows that if the first time he ever met Harry was in the dark, he'd still know his eyes are the color of death.

Harry breathes deeply and evenly, his unreadable gaze unwavering, and then he inhales. His chest swells and pauses as if he's holding his breath. And then he asks, quietly, shakily, "are you really Ginny?"

And Tom doesn't know how to answer that, so he says nothing at all.

"Go to sleep, Harry," he settles on once his heart is finished hammering against his sternum, rolling over so he won't have to face Harry any longer.

They both know what he said by not answering that question. Harry doesn't bring it up again.)

The next few days are slow, but soon they gain that excited energy Tom's come to learn the Weasley's practically ooze. They've all got to buy their school supplies after all, and Ron's getting a new wand. The night before they're set to leave - they'll be staying at the Leaky Cauldron, so they'll be able to get to King's Cross early - Tom approaches Mr. and Mrs. Weasley after everyone else has gone to bed.

Mum looks up from her knitting in surprise when the floor breaks underneath his weight. "Ginny! You should be in bed, dear. We've got an early day tomorrow."

"I know," Tom bites his lip, shuffles his weight from foot to foot, and clutches the burning wand in his hand. He swallows.

"What is it, Gin?" dad asks and Tom risks looking at them to see soft looks on their faces, eyes creases with concern. He immediately feels guilty for making them worry needlessly.

"I don't want you to think badly of me," he confesses in a warble, lips trembling. Suddenly, very real tears are welling in his eyes and there's a lump in his throat that he can't speak around.

"Oh, darling, we would _never,"_ Mrs. Weasley says fiercely, putting away her knitting to gently tug him closer. He goes willingly and she pulls him into an embrace, settling him against her shoulder. 

Dad moves closer and sits on the armrest of the couch, stroking a gentle hand through Tom's too long hair. He trembles and burrows in closer, lungs releasing a quaking breath that catches oddly at the end. He feels unstable.

"What's wrong, love?" dad probes, his voice just as gentle as his hands are. Tom inhales, shaking his head, and dad sighs. "We can't fix it if you won't tell us, Gin. C'mon, it can't be that bad. Well, unless you've finally snapped and killed the twins. In that case, we don't want to know."

Tom laughs wetly and mum smacks dad's arm, whispering "Arthur!" in a scolding tone Tom recognizes well. Mr. Weasley laughs, apologizing unconvincingly. The exchange makes Tom feel better and he withdraws from mum's---Mrs. Weasley's arms, hesitantly bringing his wand up.

His hands burn and itch painfully.

"It's my wand," he tells them, allowing himself to fall back on old habits. His voice is halting, but almost clinical as he speaks. "Ever since the---the Chamber, it hasn't---it hasn't been the same. It burns now. I don't think it will work for me for long. It's already starting to resist."

Mrs. Weasley frowns. "Well, that's odd. I suppose we'll have to get you a new one tomorrow. We should have enough for you and Ron."

"Thank you," Tom says politely, letting her take the wand away from him. Her frown deepens at the irritated burns on his palms and fingers, and she quickly whips out her own wand to heal them. He smiles at her sheepishly, and repeats his thanks.

"Why didn't you want to tell us, love?" dad asks, distracting mum who gives him the same questioning look. He squirms in her lap, looking away. "Ginny."

"I don't want you to think I'm bad," he admits quietly, refusing to look at them. They inhale sharply. "That Voldemo---that he changed me or made me like him. I don't---I'm _not._ "

"Of course you aren't," mum says and she sounds choked. Tom looks at her in alarm and finds her crying. This strikes him as very wrong and he reaches out with too small hands to wipe away her years before he can second-guess himself. She smiles and holds his hands there with her own, her face sad and fond at the same time. "We would never think that of you - _never_ . No matter what you did, Ginny, you hear me? You'll never be bad or wrong or---or like _him._ You'll be our Ginny, our little girl."

Tom stares at her, lips parted in shock, and turns to Mr. Weasley. He doesn't know what he's looking for when he does, but he's not expecting dad to be looking at him with the same sad but fond look mum has. He feels foolish for thinking otherwise as soon as the expression registers in his mind.

He swallows, suddenly filled with courage which makes him feel an awful lot like a Gryffindor - technically, he is one now - and opens his mouth to finally give voice to that persistent dull-heavy-itch that plagues him every time he's referred to as a girl.

"But what if I'm not?" he asks before he can lose his nerve and then immediately regrets it once the words have left his mouth. He winces and pulls his hands away from Mrs. Weasley. They fall into his lap limply, and he ignores the urge to pick at his shirt.

There's silence for a few moments and he grows increasingly uncomfortable in it.

Then, dad asks, "what do you mean, love?"

"What if I'm not---" he cuts himself off and exhales roughly in frustration, fingers curling to cut into his palms. "What if I'm not a girl?"

"Oh," mum says. And then falls silent.

Tom's face feels mortifyingly hot and his eyes burn with unshed tears. He should have just told them about the wand and went back to bed.

"Are you a boy then?" mum continues after a breath. Tom freezes, jaw clenching and unclenching before he nods tightly. "Okay. What do you want to be called?"

"What."

It's not a question when he says it. Just a flat statement that leaves his mouth before his brain catches up with him. And he finally looks at his parents---Ginny's parents---in shock. They're looking at him with kind eyes and expectant faces and it's all too much. His vision blurs and the years fall before his hands can catch them and mum coos softly and pulls him in close again and dad sinks further onto the couch to wrap his arms around them both and---it's _too much._

He doesn't know how long they sit there, him crying and then comforting him. But he knows it's a while before he gathers his composure back together and pulls away. They let him go and he sniffles, wiping at his face with shaking hands.

He thinks of Harry who asked and now knows. He thinks of Dumbledore who looked so sad and regretful when he looked at him, when he looked at the diary. He thinks of who he used to be, who he grew to be, and who he is now.

He thinks of all of this and makes his decision.

"I think---I think I like Tom," he says with a quivering smile that feels odd on his face. But for once, his chest is light and airy and he feels right in this body. 

He hopes he doesn't regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell i took a huge fat quarantine depression break in the middle of writing this
> 
> check out my server: [spicy hot takes!](https://discord.gg/UBpDYdQ)
> 
> and yell at me on tumblr: [iwishihadbrain.](https://iwishihadbrain.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> read a fic like this,, and immediately thought of this. so here i am. if i ever find the fic again i'll link it. anyway have this,,
> 
> check out my server: [spicy hot takes!](https://discord.gg/UBpDYdQ)
> 
> and yell at me on tumblr: [iwishihadbrain.](https://iwishihadbrain.tumblr.com/)


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